


To sleep, perchance to dream.

by southerndangernoodle



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grant Ward Redemption, Hurt Skye | Daisy Johnson, Post-Canon Fix-It, Skyeward - Freeform, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26744386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/southerndangernoodle/pseuds/southerndangernoodle
Summary: Only at night can she admit everything else is a lie.
Relationships: Skye | Daisy Johnson/Grant Ward
Comments: 21
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not really sure what I'm doing here or where it's headed. I just need an outlet for my Daisy muse. :) :) :)

Sleep didn't come easy these days. . .until it did.

Most nights all Daisy could do was lay on her mattress, staring at the ceiling for hours just waiting for the night to pass in a tumultuous jumble of incoherent thoughts that never stopped spinning. It was inevitable. The long hours of darkness lasted decades, and there was nothing she could do except wait.

_And wait._

**_And wait._ **

The next day was an inescapable nightmare of exhaustion and often anguish, her emotional state heightened by the lack of sleep. The lack of sleep, in turn causing her to fumble. To make mistakes so bad even her inner Rookie cringed. But every day she pushed on, knowing that maybe, _just maybe_. . .the next time she sought out her bed, sleep would come.

. . . 

But on those nights when it did, like tonight, it wasn't always peaceful. Those incoherent thoughts solidified and focused into narrow slivers of memories that flashed through her dreaming mind like beacons, fading in and out at random.

_I made an avalanche._

A self imposed torture like no other. A trap so efficient that there was no escape.

_He’s Hydra._

None of it made sense, it wasn't chronological. . . and it was never, ever about one person. It seemed everyone got a chance at centre stage in Daisy's dreams. Good or bad, they all got a mention.

_I will never forgive you._

Just random memories that rose unbidden and sank again, only to be replaced by another. And then another. She had no control at all, no way of turning away from the painful so that she could embrace the sweet.

_It can’t be worse than what I’ve imagined._

Some worse than others, some that still gave her trauma. Some she'd learned to deal with, accepting them for what they were and the part they’d played in her life.

_Make it stop!_

Others Daisy knew there'd never be _any_ forgiveness for, memories of words said in anger instead of understanding.

_Try harder next time._

Words that no matter **how much she might want to,** she could never, **ever** take them back.

_I’m still happy I shot you._

Words that still shone as a beacon of truth during the light of day, even though she'd only ever admit to herself in the silences of her mind that they were a lie. That the Framework, for all it’s messed up existence, had been right, and despite the fact that she was still mourning for Lincoln . . .it wasn’t _him_ that it showed her. It wasn’t _him_ that was her biggest regret, not by far.

No, her biggest regret was a man long turned to dust, a man she’d understood far too late. A man she’d actively tried to hunt down and kill alongside the rest of her team. A man who had all but begged for her to help him. The same man she’d turned her back on when she was a scared rookie and still new to everything. The one who had, right up until his death, _never once_ broken the promise he’d made to her from behind a security screen . . .right after she’d made a cruel mockery of his attempted suicide.

The one she’d rejected and sent spiralling into an existence so dark the only way out was his death.

Daisy was a fraud, living a lie she could never escape from no matter how hard she tried. Her conscience would never be cleansed. Forgiveness would never come, her biggest regret was lost . . . and in losing him. . .

_I kind of just lost myself._

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, this is officially going to be a multi-chapter fic. I can't say yet how long it's going to be, but I can promise a happy ending ( once I've delivered on the angst in my heart ).
> 
> This chapter is short and sweet ( Sorry! ) but I promise it's relevant and there's more to come.
> 
> Also . . comments are more than welcome :) :) <3

**DESTROY AFTER READING.**

**⋙ θ**

**DATE: 5/10/2020**

**PROJECT THETA:** HIGH ALERT.

**D/N:** 3-68g4

**AUTHORISED EYES ONLY.**

**⋙ θ**

Close inspection of CCTV footage from the Guggenheim Museum Republican fundraising gala six days ago has uncovered the presence of the S.H.I.E.L.D. operative known as _‘Quake’_ , also known as _Daisy Johnson._ Further analysis of stills captured on the night confirms her identification, though she was careful to avoid cameras. Any images of her required professional enhancement, leading [redacted] to believe she was using scrambling software to avoid being seen (see attached). Johnson was not on the guest list, but it would appear she entered the event unchallenged. 

**⋙ θ**

We can only assume Agent Johnson was using a pseudonym and likely to be working undercover since S.H.I.E.L.D. and [redacted] are not currently working together on any projects. Identification checks are being made on all guests to determine how Johnson infiltrated the event and who (if any) her accomplices were.

**⋙ θ**

**ORDERS:**

Locate her current whereabouts and monitor her movements. **Do not approach** . **Repeat: Do not approach.** Johnson is to be considered very dangerous. A specialist team will be sent to retrieve her.

**⋙ θ**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . .and so it begins.  
> I hope you're enjoying it so far! <3 <3

_He was a ghost._

In every sense of the word he was dead. Erased from life. Freed from an existence so painful the only way out was death. And not just any death. . . a death so horrific, so drawn out and agonising that when that mechanical hand had crushed his chest and taken his life. . . the only thing he could feel was gratitude.

Well. Aside from the excruciating pain.

_He was a ghost._

Living in the shadows on the fringes of society. Never seen. Rarely spoken to. The only deliberate contact with the rest of humanity made when he was forced to leave the solitude he’d forced upon himself. Or to yank on the invisible chain looped around his neck, though that was rare. . . with the life he had, keeping those holding the other end of it placated was _definitely_ in his best interests.

Most of the time.

_He was a ghost._

Moving flawlessly with the ebb and flow of the people around him, unseen in plain sight. . . all the while drawing on skills he’d learned in a past life. A life where he’d followed orders and found comfort in protocol. Until his hand had been forced and his secrets made public. A life where against all odds he’d finally found the family he had been yearning for in the silences of his mind for decades. A life where against odds higher still, he’d fallen for a woman so ethereal, _so perfect_ , that even now he still wondered if she’d been real.

A life there was never, ever any going back to.

A life he’d ruined because he didn’t know how to do better. How to _be_ better. . . and maybe he still didn’t. Lord knew his demons were never far away, always hovering, always ready to rise up and drag him back down into the abyss he’d lived and died in.

_He was a ghost._

Nothing but a ruined man with an eternity of regret in his heart that would never find peace. A man who, despite being declared legally dead, had a heart beating red blood and lungs that filled with the same air he’d breathed when he was alive. One who had no idea why or how. Just that he’d woken up on the outskirts of a town he’d never been to as naked as the day he was born with a headache so bad it hurt to see when he opened his eyes.

And oh, the agony. The searing pain that had coursed through him from head to toe was like no other. Nothing he’d ever felt before. _Not even his own death_ compared to how he’d felt that day almost two years ago upon regaining consciousness after riding unaware in the passenger seat for God knew how long. Yes, there was pain. . . but buried inside it had been a slowly growing awareness that for some reason, he was alive.

And better yet. . . he had the autonomous use of his own body again.

_He was a ghost._

And that was all Grant Douglas Ward wanted to be.

~~~~~

It was an old sandstone building in a leafy street on the fringes of the city. Close enough to be relevant, yet far enough out that the daily grind of office workers wasn’t an interruption to the surprisingly hip suburb he’d chosen to live in. Or rather, one of the only places he had left that hadn’t been seized after his death. . . mostly because he’d bought it under a false identity during his days working for Hydra.

He owned the entire building, yet kept only part of the top two floors for himself. The rest of the space was leased out to anyone who could afford or wanted to pay for the dubious honour of living in an old apartment block owned by a dead man.

Not that anyone knew he owned it. No, to anyone else, Grant Ward was simply another tenant. A banker, a shy man who often worked late and kept to himself, rarely doing more than nodding awkwardly to anyone he met in the foyer or elevator. He was simply Aaron Mathews, single and uninterested, despite the many attempts of Lucy Brown in 4B to get him into her bed. Just Aaron, the guy who worked for one of the largest banking firms in the city, who jogged regularly and always helped old Mr Patterson out of the elevator whenever he was there.

_The perfect cover._

. . . and today, it was Aaron Mathews who barely made eye contact with anyone as he strode through the lobby, wanting nothing more than the solitude of his own space and the silence it offered him on days like this when his past lingered a little too closely to the surface for his liking. 

He smiled tiredly in greeting to the security guard, making a mental note to check the systems he’d put in place in order to keep the privacy he was so desperate to maintain. They’d cost him a small fortune, but it was worth it. Nobody could get anywhere near his building, or his apartment without an alarm going off on his phone, or the information being sent to a computer system he had set up solely for that purpose.

It was safer that way.

_If they knew. . . they’d still want me dead_ **_that_ ** _much._

The elevator pinged, and it was still Aaron Mathews who walked down the corridor on the fourteenth floor to his apartment, and him again who gained access through the keypad on the door.

. . . but it was Grant Ward who closed the door behind him and tossed the small backpack he’d been carrying onto the coffee table in his living room.

The mask fell.

Ward raised his hands over his head, stretching the kinks out of his long frame as he exhaled the tension of the ‘mission’ he’d been sent on a day earlier out of his system. Long, tired legs carried him on autopilot to the kitchen, where he leaned into the fridge to wrap his fingers around a cold beer. His stomach rumbled loudly at him, protesting as the beer hit the empty space inside, but he ignored it for now.

Food could wait. The cold beer could not. . . and it was with another slow exhale Ward set his long anticipated beer down on the counter, raising his eyes in the direction of the dimly lit balcony terrace outside.

“What do you want?”


	4. Chapter 4.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :)

“Ward. . . is that any way to speak to the man holding the keys to your _freedom_?”

From out of the shadows on the terrace a shape appeared, forming into a solid mass as it moved closer to the light inside Ward’s apartment. Ward didn’t move, he’d known the intruder was there before he’d even stepped foot through the lobby doors downstairs, identifying him as the FBI agent that held the reins to the leash around his neck via a secure feed from his security system.

The same reins he was simultaneously chafing against and yet powerless to escape from. . . _for now._

“I’ll believe that freedom exists when I’m holding proof of it in my hands and my record is expunged, Benson, not a minute before.”

FBI Agent Nicholas Benson snorted, feigning a tone of shock at the former S.H.I.E.L.D. specialist’s words. In his left hand he held a sealed envelope that Ward instantly knew was another mission, another task the FBI didn’t want to publicly get their hands dirty with. A mission that only someone with Ward’s unique background could accomplish with any kind of success. . . but until Benson handed it over, Ward would be oblivious to what he was being ‘asked’ to do. “Your record is pretty uhhh, lengthy, Ward. There are things on there I’m having trouble getting over the line even after all you’ve done, and you know --”

Ward’s fingers tightened around the beer bottle still in his grasp, though he made no other outward sign that he was remotely bothered by Benson’s stalling. It was true, in his past life he’d made a _lot_ of mistakes. . . big ones, but now, thanks to eighteen months of regular therapy sessions that had initially started as an exercise designed to assess whether or not he could be trusted to perform in the field, Ward was beginning to see his past for what it was.

He’d begun to accept what had happened to him. _What had really happened,_ and not what he’d been conditioned to believe.

But even that acceptance didn’t excuse some of the truly horrific things he’d done. . . and those would haunt him forever. Then again, so would what had been done to him. “Benson you and I both know about a third of what’s on there is bullshit. My brother and S.H.I.E.L.D. needed a scapegoat and I was conveniently laying around in the basement. Even after that it was easier to put some of it on me than -”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Benson set the envelope down on the counter, resting his palm over the top of it to prevent Ward from taking it from him before he was ready to hand it over. . . he wanted some space between him and the deadly man standing opposite him before he was made aware of the contents inside. “. . . what matters is me getting it all over the line. Not me trying to prove you _didn’t_ do _some_ things when the things you _did_ do are bad enough. Either way this. . .”

A calloused palm waved around Benson’s head, indicating Ward’s living arrangements, “. . and this.” His other hand tapped on the envelope resting on the counter, knowing it would draw Ward’s eyes toward it. “. . . are better than the alternative. I stuck my neck out for you Grant. Just do as you’re told for a bit longer and it’ll be all over the evening news before you know it.”

Ward grunted, lifting the beer bottle to his lips to take another long needed pull on the brew inside. Benson was right. And he was wrong. But he knew that if his old roommate from military school hadn’t been the one that had been sent to investigate the delirious man with questionable sanity stumbling around an abandoned town in southern Wyoming, Ward probably would have been shot on sight. Instead, he’d found himself pumped full of tranquilizers and admitted under a false name to a psychiatric hospital not far from Benson’s field office in Portland, Oregon.

A month after that, Ward had found himself standing on the curbside with a bus token in one hand and all of his worldly possessions (Benson’s phone number on a card and two dollars in change) in the other.

_A breakdown_ , they’d called it. A rest from reality. A vacation in his own mind. . . whatever it was, it had lasted long enough for Ward to come to his senses and realise he needed to get out of there, and so he’d played ball with the doctors until they deemed him fit to re-enter society. His next step after that had been dusting off one of his aliases and disappearing into the throng, but not before spending a week on Bensen’s couch while he got his affairs in order and took stocktake on what he could salvage from his previous life.

The in-between was something he still didn’t want to think about.

Two months into Ward’s new life as the reclusive Aaron Mathews, Benson had contacted Ward with a proposition he couldn’t refuse, and now here he was. . . A former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, former HYDRA operative. Former dead man, working as a shadow operative for the FBI, taking missions that could never, _ever_ be official in return for a clean slate and a new life.

That was the deal anyway. Ward even had it in writing, locked away with some sensitive information about the FBI Director in a safe deposit box nobody knew about. Just in case.

He was dead, not stupid.

“I’d rather not be a headline again if it’s all the same to you.”

Ward set his bottle down again, though this time when the glass clinked onto the countertop it sounded almost empty. His stance was relaxed as he leaned forward to rest a hand either side of his beer, but anyone who knew Ward knew that reading that as complacency was a mistake. He was tired and sore, and still bleeding from where he’d been too slow to dodge the downward slash of a knife. The last mission he’d been sent on had seen Ward brawling with a bodyguard twice his size when the target hadn’t been quite as dead as he thought he was, and had hit a silent alarm before Ward could silence _him_. All he wanted right now was a hot shower, another beer and about three days of sleep. “The envelope, Benson. You gonna hand it over or do I have to offer you a beer first?”

Benson waved him off, stepping backwards away from the counter as his fingers pushed the envelope towards Ward. He cursed inwardly, knowing the former specialist would have seen the way his hand trembled and heard the reluctance in his tone when he next spoke. “Just remember, I don’t choose the assignment, okay? I don’t like this any more than you do.” Turning quickly on his heel, the FBI agent made his way to Ward’s door knowing if he didn’t leave now. . . Ward might not let him leave at all.

“Let me know when it’s done.”

The envelope filled Ward’s line of sight until the sound of Bensons’s footsteps receded down the corridor. Once he was sure the agent was gone, he activated his alarm system, deciding he needed a minute before he dove back into the particulars of yet another mission, and to that end Ward turned his back on the envelope and grabbed another beer. He made his way up a flight of stairs to the upper level he’d redesigned as his sanctuary, striding past the study near the top of the stairs to his bedroom a little further on.

With a tired sounding sigh, he removed his shoes and tugged his socks free, tossing them onto the floor along with his shirt, which he’d unbuttoned on the way up. He winced when the cut on his side pulled, and noted with detached interest the blood that had started to seep onto his shirt. Exhaustion was setting in, but Ward couldn’t sleep yet, and he entered his bathroom with his pants half undone to turn on the shower. While the water adjusted, he finished stripping himself bare and examined the cut in the full length mirror, turning sideways in order to see it better.

“. . .probably won’t leave a scar.”

He brushed it off as nothing, took a sip of his beer and stepped into the shower. . . and instantly groaned in relief when the warm water cascaded down his body. It was a salve to his exhausted state, the heat infusing Ward with the energy he needed to shampoo his hair and scrub himself down. As much as he wanted to linger, his mind kept returning to the envelope on the counter downstairs, and it was with a grunt of frustration that he quite suddenly turned the water off, silently cursing at himself for being so curious when all he wanted to do was sleep. 

Minutes later, Ward was back downstairs again, a shirt hanging loosely in one hand and a pair of flannel sleeping pants slung low on his hips. Droplets of water could still be seen glistening on his muscled shoulders from the haste he’d used when scrubbing a towel through his dark hair, which now stood out in all directions on top of his head, and would remain that way until he’d styled it back down into something more manageable. . . but that could wait. His fingers closed over the sealed envelope, and Ward raised a brow at the weight of it. “Okay. . . who are you and what have you done to piss off the FBI?”

He tore the edge and upended the contents onto the counter, noting with interest the size of the file. Whoever had put the information together had been remarkably thorough, and that was quite rare for missions like these. Usually they held a name and an image and little else. A photograph half slid out from in between the papers, catching Ward’s eyes, and his fingers moved to tug it free so he could get a visual on his next target before he read the parameters of the mission.

“Oh no.”

Ward’s exhaustion fled.

Her hair was different and her face was sadder. Leaner than he remembered. She looked as tired as he’d felt seconds before despite the glamorous dress she was wearing and the way her hair was piled on top of her head. Brown eyes that had seen too much stared back at him almost accusingly, as if somehow she already knew he’d been sent for her. Ward’s jaw clenched as he tried to deny what was in front of him, and what he’d been asked to do, and his free hand gripped the edge of the counter so hard his fingers ached.

“. . . _no._ ”

There had to be a mistake. Ward’s heart started racing, thumping in his chest as he stared down into the doe eyes he’d been trying to forget existed. His hand shook as he picked up the photograph, sending the rest of the papers scattering as he almost frantically searched for his orders, convinced that there was some kind of error, that someone was playing a hoax.

But they weren’t, and it wasn’t a mistake.

His orders were there in black and white, stapled firmly to the orders of the mission that had been sent to initially find her.

**⋙ θ**

**ORDERS:**

Locate her current whereabouts and monitor her movements. **Do not approach** . **Repeat: Do not approach.** Johnson is to be considered very dangerous. A specialist team will be sent to retrieve her.

**⋙ θ**

**ORDERS:**

Retrieve the target alive by any means necessary. Sedate and bring her to the location indicated on the map.

**⋙ θ**

Ward slumped against the counter, covering his face with both palms as his past flared into life, sending image after image through his brain as fresh and raw as if it were yesterday and not years in the past. His breath was ragged, and he could feel himself shaking as he fought against the memories of a life he’d betrayed, and a love so deep and pure he knew he’d never find anything like it ever again.

“ **_. . .Skye._ **”


	5. Chapter 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to update, I hope you're all still with me.!
> 
> ..we're getting into it now.!!  
> Please leave comments if you are enjoying this fic, it's really encouraging to read them :)

“No it’s cool. I’ll be fine. I need to do this on my own.”

It hadn’t exactly been a true statement. What kind of idiot moves into a new house without asking their friends to help? It was a time honoured tradition, wheedling a few hours here and there out of everyone you knew so that your furniture could be put in place. Not to mention firing up the grill to make a thank you feast for all involved. And the beers. Who in their right mind would pass up on the beers?

Daisy would. . . and she had.

But this wasn’t just any new house, and this wasn’t just another move. And she didn’t even have any furniture except what she’d negotiated to be left behind. A bed frame, the fridge and a sun lounge.

This was her _first_ house. The only one Daisy had ever owned. The only one nobody could kick her out of or move her on from because she _wasn’t a good fit._ It was _hers_ , bought and paid for with what she’d come to describe as her ‘S.H.I.E.L.D. fun bucks’, money she’d accumulated over time via one thank you payment or another. It had just sat there collecting dust, and she’d added to it now and then. . . but for the most part, Daisy had ignored it. Sure, it was more money than she’d ever seen in her life, and sure, she’d risked her life for it more than once, but for seven years she’d barely had time to breathe, never mind spend it.

Until now.

Until she’d taken off in a huff one afternoon and driven up the coast with the windows down and the sun streaming in from the left hand side. She’d driven until it felt like the weight pressing down on her chest had lifted and she could breathe again. . . and then, and _only_ then had Daisy pulled into a beachside parking lot to exhale and watch the sun go down.

An hour later, she’d checked into a holiday letting for the night, far too tired to do more than lock the door behind her and fall into the ridiculously soft bed. The next morning had been spent in wonder as she examined the little cottage she had rented for the night, her exclamations of joy turning to awe when her eyes had turned to the view beyond the blinds. . . and the open expanse of sand and sea she could gaze upon without even having to step foot on the deck.

. . . which was exactly where she was standing right now, with her arms folded on the railing and a cold gin sitting within reach.

“I can’t believe I actually did it.”

Her words floated in the breeze, too soft to be heard by anyone. Not that there was anyone to hear. Lifting her glass to her lips, Daisy smiled as the bitter tang of gin hit the back of her throat. . . and it was the first real smile that had appeared for months. Not that there was anyone to see. “It’s mine, _it’s really mine._ ”

Three times she’d come back to see the little house before taking the plunge, and each visit had only cemented her first impression. Now, as she stood barefoot watching the same ocean and the same sun, setting on the horizon, Daisy felt something she hadn’t felt since she’d been a Rookie on the bus, all those years ago.

_She was home._

~~~~~

Contrary to Daisy’s belief, she wasn’t alone at all. From half a mile down the beach, hidden in the scruffy, knee length grass that grew at the front of the sand dunes, a pair of binoculars was trained on her location. He’d been there for hours, disguised as just another beach bum soaking up the sun. Watching. Waiting. But for some reason, the timing was never quite right. It was unfathomable, the target was hidden from the public eye and alone, and in his mind, there was no good reason why no move had been made to secure her as ordered.

It grated against everything he’d ever trained to be. Frustrated him beyond belief that something as foolish as a dead romantic attachment could stall a mission as important as this. 

“Idiot. . . “

He wasn’t quite sure who he was speaking about as the word left his parted lips, but a quick glance at his watch made the decision for him, and he rolled onto his back just in time to watch a hawk dive into the ocean to catch his dinner. It disappeared under the swell, only to reappear seconds later with a silver-sided fish struggling in its talons.

If that wasn’t a sign for him to make his move, he didn’t know what was.

~~~~~

It was only a weekend, but so far for Daisy it felt like a week. No corridors, no missions. Nobody telling her to smile or trying to cheer her up. No briefings disguised as dinner, or coffee hidden within a mental health check. They all meant well, and she loved them dearly for it, they were her family. . . but this was a break Daisy needed.

From S.H.I.E.L.D., and from herself.

The gin kicked in, and soon Daisy found herself digging around for the portable speaker she’d brought with her. Seconds after that, her favourite Spotify playlist started, and the sound of an electric guitar resonated through her small seaside cottage.

Daisy kicked off her runners and stood in the middle of her almost empty living room with her arms crossed behind her head. Her left foot tapped with the beat, and eyes closed, she began to sway, humming along with the tune now and then as she felt even more tension leaving her body. The scent of the ocean invaded her nostrils, the sound of the waves crashing gently into the shoreline overrode the noise from the engines rumbling past on the road. On her tongue she could taste the gin, and the strawberries she’d thrown into it. . . and nowhere at all could she hear a beep, or the whirring of recycled air. Or the sound of an experiment gone wrong.

It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was - 

A knock on the door pulled Daisy out of her relaxed state and back to reality, her eyes shooting open as every nerve ending caught fire and her usual wariness kicked in. At the same time, her phone chimed again, and her shoulders slumped in relief when she realised it was just her dinner. Right on time.

“Oh hey. That smells _great_ , you don’t know how hungry I am I haven’t eaten since -”

She was talking before the door was even fully open, one hand coming up to lean on the timber as her eyes sought out the food held loosely in the delivery man’s hand. The other fished into her jeans pocket for the tip she’d shoved in there earlier, and she hopped from one foot to the other as though it would make the note surface faster. “One moment. . hey, just put the bag on there I’ll get it in a sec. Ha.”

With a triumphant grin, she reached out to hand over the cash, shaking it a little impatiently as she stepped out onto the porch to take her food. The smile faltered when the delivery man made no effort to take her money, and she turned puzzled eyes back to him. “Dude. . . It’s yours, take it.”

It was almost hesitant, the way the dark clad man took the bill from her outstretched hand. Daisy barely heard the mumbled ‘thanks’ he offered her in the way of gratitude. She turned away again, her mind back on the Thai food she’d just had delivered.

But her hand never closed over the bag.

In fact, the bag went flying as Daisy was hit from behind and taken by surprise. Strong hands grabbed at her, pulling her back against a solid body that didn’t budge as her reflexes kicked in and she began to struggle against it. From inside her house, she heard more footsteps as another man joined the first. . . and her ears picked up yet more as her struggle continued.

“What the fu--”

A hand clamped down over her mouth, and she bit down, grunting in satisfaction when she heard a sick sounding crunch followed quickly by a bark of pain.

_“Bitch. Hold still.”_

Her captor moved backwards, dragging her with him to the edge of the porch and the black van that waited in her driveway. “Got her.”

_Her driveway. Her house._ **_Her new house._ **

Holding her tight against him, he brought the hand she’d bitten up to press something against her neck, all the while moving closer to the point of no escape. 

“Not on your life, _jerk_.”

Daisy’s foot came down hard at the same time she used whatever movement she had left to slam her hand into his groin. Without thinking about it, she closed her hand into a fist and twisted her wrist in a savage movement that would be almost impossible to ignore. The reaction of the man who held her was instant. He let her go with a roar of pain, and she swung away from him, freeing herself as she turned to deliver the heel of her palm into his chin, sending him backwards to land in an unconscious heap on her porch.

The squeaking of a plank behind her gave Daisy all the warning she needed for the next attacker, and now, with her senses once again on high alert, her training kicked in. “My new house. _Really?_ ” She didn’t wait for him to make a move, Daisy made hers first, using the hand to hand she’d mastered with May to put this one on the ground with the first.

Breathing hard, Daisy swayed again, though this time the music had nothing to do with it. She reached up to touch her neck, cursing when she saw her hand come away with flecks of blood on it. Whatever he’d tried to jab her with hadn’t been enough to knock her out as intended. . . but Daisy definitely wasn’t focused as well as she should be.

“Damn.” 

More footsteps sounded, and Daisy heard the distinctly soft click of a safety being released from somewhere inside. She shook her head to clear it, and turned to face whatever was waiting behind her.

“Good. He got you. The boss wants a word.”

“. . .Tell your boss to shove it.” Daisy didn’t miss the pistol aimed at her head, even with hers swimming in confusion as whatever she’d been injected with fogged her senses. She turned her hand, palm outstretched and blinked in surprise when nothing happened. Again, she reached within herself for the bundle of power that resided inside. . . and once again, nothing. “What did you do to me?”

The intruder’s smug grin was all she got in response. He waved the gun at her, motioning around to his gathering colleagues as they piled into her living room. Daisy’s drugged mind would have been impressed at the number they’d sent to bring her in if it could focus. “Nothing that won’t wear off in a few hours. But by then you’ll be contained and we’ll have our finder’s fee.”

“Like hell I will.” Daisy figured she had only a few moments left before it was too late, and she intended to put them to good use. She stepped forward, giving her would-be captor a grin of her own, though it masked how weak she was actually feeling. “You’re not gonna shoot me. You said it yourself, the boss wants a word.”

“Quit screwing around Murphy. We’re not alone out here.”

“ - the hell are you talking about Kowalski? The area is secure.”

“Coms are down. I can’t - “

Whatever Kowalksi was about to say was interrupted by the sound of glass cracking. His face barely registered his surprise before he fell to the floor, clutching at the sudden fountain of blood that erupted from his neck. He was dead before his body stopped moving, his blue eyes staring sightlessly at Daisy’s ceiling as his lifeblood spilled onto the timber floor in her new home. . . and all Daisy could do was stare while on all side of her, all hell broke loose.


End file.
